"Haven't got a mother."

"Yer vather, then?"

"No father either," said Leicester. "If he were alive I'm inclined to think he'd say, 'Die, and have done with it.'"

"But you've got brothers, or sisters, or a wife, or a sweetheart?" She said this not so much for the sake of proving that he was in the wrong, but because, like the rest of her s.e.x, especially those who live in lonely places, she desired to know something about this stranger.

Leicester shook his head.

"Well, you be in a bad way."

"Exactly," said Leicester, "I am." He yielded to a sudden impulse. "Now I put it to you, ma'am," he said, "suppose you had no friends, no one who cared for you; suppose you found the world a dirty sort of place, and found no pleasure in living, what would you do?"

"Do! I shud git somebody that ded care for me."

"I've tried, but failed."

"Ain't 'ee got a sweetheart, then?"

"Not one."

"Is there no one that you do like?"

"Yes," he said, "but she's thrown me overboard."

"Gived 'ee the sack, you do main?"

"Exactly."

"Why then, zur, maakin' so bould?"

He was in a reckless mood, and in a way he could not understand, the buxom, kind-hearted woman led him to speak.

"Because I'm a bad 'un."

"Nonsense."

"Fact, I a.s.sure you. A right down bad 'un."

"And es she very good?"

"Terribly good, terribly proud, and terribly unforgiving."

"And ded she give 'ee the sack 'cause you wos so bad?"

"More because I hurt her pride, I think."

"Ah, I zee."

"Come now, under these circ.u.mstances, what would you do?"

"I'd begin by bein' a good man, and laive the rest to G.o.d."

"G.o.d!" and Leicester laughed.

"Why, doan't 'ee believe in G.o.d?"

"I think I believe in the devil, if that's any good."

"Then, zur, I'd kill the devil."

"Can't; I love him too much."

"What, love the devil?"

"I hug him to my heart. He served me a nasty trick the other day, but I stick to him all the same. Yes, he's my only friend. He's nearly always with me. When I'm friendly with him, he helps me to forget. All the same, I'm tired of him in a way. Now, then, what would you do?"

"The devil is allays our enemy, zur, allays. You must kill 'ee or you're done for."

The conversation was out of her depth, but she felt sure she was saying what was right.

"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Leicester, with a bitter laugh. "And yet I don't know. What do you think he's been persuading me to do this afternoon?"

"Summin' bad, you may depend, zur."

"I don't know. You know that big pool up among the moors. It has a kind of fascination for me, and the devil always meets me there. He is always telling me that it is very peaceful and quiet at the bottom of the pool."

"What, you d' main Crazzick Pool? It ain't got no bottom to et. Et's the devil's pool, tha's wot 'tes."

"Exactly. Well, he tempts me to walk into it, and sink, and sink, and find rest and peace."

"You doan't git no peace except in Christ, zur," said Mrs. Pethick, who was a cla.s.s-leader among the Bible Christians.

Leicester looked at the dame's kindly face and wondered. Had this simple, homely, kindly-faced woman learned any secret unknown to him? To say the least, the question interested him.

"Look here," he said, "you don't mind speaking to a poor devil like I am quite honestly, do you? In fact, it's no use speaking to me at all, unless you do speak quite honestly, for I can detect a lie in a minute.

Do you really believe that Christ does help you?"

"Do I believe et? I'm zure, zur. Why, when I'm tempted to do wrong, to think of Christ do 'elp me. Whenever I d' 'ave bad, wicked thoughts, I d' jist think of Him, and they do go, zur. For zure they do."

"And He gives you peace, does He?" said Leicester half mockingly, half seriously.

"Iss, zur, 'e do fer zure. I wudden zay zo ef I wasn't zackly zure. A paice which I caan't git no other way. Why, when I be comin' home from cla.s.s-mitten' by myzelf, I git feared zumtimes, when tes dark; for the way es loanly. But I d' talk weth Jesus oal the way, and then--well, zur, the loanly road ez vull of light."

The mocking laugh left Leicester's lips as she spoke: it was impossible to doubt what she said.

"But there," went on Mrs. Pethick, with all a woman's tact, "you be could and wisht, you be. I'll git a cup ov tay for 'ee, and zum bread and craim. You c'n jist raid the paaper while I be gone."